


Star-Crossed

by teacupdestiny



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, F/M, Katara sees visions of the future and past, Oracle AU, zuko doesn't find the avatar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-06-24 17:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15635775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacupdestiny/pseuds/teacupdestiny
Summary: For decades, the Fire Nation has been inching closer and closer to total victory. But the rebellion, spear-headed by the White Lotus has a secret weapon: the Oracle in the North. Prince Zuko, having failed to find the Avatar, is given a final chance to regain his honor: capture the Oracle and bring her to the Fire Nation. Zutara. M.





	1. First Kiss – Realizations – Superstition

_It always starts the same._

_A jumble of images, dizzying flashing lights. Snatches of sentences she doesn’t understand, so much screaming. This dream has haunted her since before she can remember, but every time she has it, it feels more vivid, more real, more frightening than the time before._

_A red sky, the comet._

_A golden phoenix, reborn in blue flames._

_Screaming. It hurts her ears._

_The little boy with gray eyes – his face is so familiar now – crackling with lightning and concentration._

_The image shifts to her blue-eyed brother, recoiling against fire. When she was a child, he’d been older and almost unrecognizable behind sweat, blood, and a beard. Now, she realizes, this could be her brother any day—as soon as he decides to let that beard grow. Beside him is the girl with a shock of wild black hair covering her face. She’s grabbing at something and the most awful screeching makes Katara cover her ears._

_Finally, the man in red, shouting her name. Katara is suddenly in the moment, reaching out to him and screaming – he can’t die, too much depends on him—_

_Something hits her, pain blooms in her side. The women, with blood on her face and insanity in her yellow eyes, grins viciously. Her lips are the color of blood. “Wake up, Katara!” she sings._

She sits up, suddenly at home in the North. In her bed. Alone.

Katara stares at her trembling hands, tries to catch her breath. Her nightgown is soaked with sweat and her hair is stringy and wet. She draws in a trembling breath, but then forces herself out of bed. There are more important things than her fear.

She kicks her blankets aside and shoves her feet into seal fur slippers. There isn’t enough time to find a gown to cover her arms—she runs out of her room and down the hall in a thin shift, her breath rushing out before her in frantic white puffs.

It takes half a minute to reach her brother’s door, another to pound on it like a possessed woman. Sokka isn’t supposed to be home for another week, but the door swings open anyway. Her brother looks like he’s literally stepped off the boat—her blood runs cold when she sees the healthy beard on his face. Katara gapes at him, then she can’t breathe because _it’s starting and she’s not ready and –_

There’s water on her face and she’s lying on her brother’s bed. He looks half dead with exhaustion and half crazy with worry. She realizes that she must have passed out. “You had a panic attack.” her brother says, instead of hello. 

“I saw it again,” she breathes, “there’s more, Sokka, there’s so much more, there’s too much!”

His hands are on her shoulders, “Katara, you have to calm down—

“No!” she cries, sitting up, “You have to record it!”

The look on his face says that he’s about to do _anything_ but record her dreams, but then she forces herself to breath. “Please,” she says, “I’ll calm down as soon as I know it’s on paper.”

Sokka blinks, unconvinced. “ _Please._ ” She begs.

“If you faint again,” he mutters, rooting around for paper and ink, “I swear I’ll never record a single dream ever _again—_

He’s barely had a chance to prepare before she begins talking.

They spend an hour going through the dream again and again and again. She recites every detail she can think of, the noises, the sights, the order. Anything could be significant. Sokka writes every detail faithfully. It isn’t until he sets his scroll down that she can truly relax. Somehow, the grip of the vision releases her, and she can sag against her brother and breathe.

“I’m sorry.” She whispers.

“Don’t be.” He says and strokes her hair like he used to when they children and their mother had just died.

“How did the negotiations go?” she asks.

Katara is asleep before he finishes his first sentence.

~

_His bed is hard and sparse. His hands are so gentle. She is not. She is out of control. Katara gasps into his neck, kissing and tasting sweet sweat and drowning in him. She feels like a fire, burning burning burning and she’s so happy to do so. He pulls her mouth up to his and kisses her hard and long. Then he moves and she can’t help crying out—he shoves a hand over her mouth._

_“Shh!” he hisses, but he doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop moving within her._

_She clutches him tightly and they fall and fall and fall together into darkness._

~

When they were children, Katara used to crawl into his bedroll after a vision. Sokka would huff and puff and grumble and then pull his blankets over his little sister. Back then, his parents thought that her visions were simple night terrors—every child had night terrors. But then she began to predict the attacks on the village and once word got out, nobody ever saw her as a little girl again.

Except Sokka.

He’d carried her back to her own bed a thousand times. He’d held her through the worst of her nightmares, let her curl up on him when they’d fled to the North Pole and there hadn’t been a bed for her to sleep on.

Somehow, somewhere, his sister had grown up.

Sokka still carried her to bed every now and again, but Katara had gotten a lot heavier.

Or at least she had been heavy.

Now, she was painfully thin.

For the last year, the nightmares and visions had become stronger and stronger and the toll they took was heavier and heavier. His seventeen year old sister had become thin and gaunt, sleepless and anxious. 

She wakes as he carriers her back to her room. “Sokka,” she whispers, “Sokka, stop. I can’t sleep.”

He’s half-dead with exhaustion; the negotiations in Kyoshi had taken weeks longer than he’d expected, Suki had been far more difficult to convince than he expected. Even so, he’s not about let his sister walk off in the middle of the night and agonize over her visions until her sanity snaps.

“No,” he decides, “You’re going back to sleep until morning.”

She wiggles in his grip and he’s forced to set her down. “Katara,” he begins, “You kept me awake for an hour writing down your crazy dreams—now do me a favor and _sleep_. Then I can sleep. You don’t want to kill your only brother, huh?”

“There’s too much to do,” she mutters, walking away, “There’s so much I have to do before—

It’s like she hasn’t heard a word that he’s said. Something in his chest hurts—seeing his sister like this hurts. Katara hasn’t been herself for a long time; the visions have turned his mouthy, vibrant, stupidly optimistic sister into a pale, anxious wreck. Sokka catches her arm, pulls her to a stop. “Katara,” he says sternly, “Before what? What do you have to do?”

She turns to face him with eerie blue eyes and a face as blank as the night. She’s in the grip of a vision, staring at him like he’s a stranger. The moment passes and his sister blinks.

“Sokka?” she says, “You’re hurting me.”

He releases her and she sags against him. “There’s so much to do.” she says again.

Sokka has to force himself to keep his voice even. He’s not the master of tact, but even an idiot knows that shouting won’t help. “Katara,” he says, “You can’t prepare for anything if you let the visions kill you.”

But she’s already walking away and he watches her go, silently. All his life, he’s protected his sister from danger, from the Fire Nation, from the expectations of the North. He’s never been able to protect her from herself.

~

The Oracle is beautiful in a terribly fragile sort of way, like a glass sculpture that might shatter under the slightest pressure. Her eyes are electric blue, the color of arctic ice—unstable and dangerous and breathtakingly beautiful. Her hair is messy and curly, brown streaked with white. She’s short and uncomfortably thin; the toll of her visions are clear upon her body.

He’s been warned, of course, that she’s far more powerful than she appears—something he’d assumed was silly superstition. Even so, he is cautious. He watches her for a time, carving ice with quick nimble brown hands. There is already a body—a man he thinks, wearing heavy armor. Zuko is startled to find his face appearing beneath her careful, graceful bending.

She pauses to regard the sculpture, pursing her lips. “I need to know who you are,” she whispers, “It’s starting, where are you?” 

“Why don’t you just ask who I am?” he says, stepping out from behind a shadowed column.

The Oracle doesn’t seem surprised to see him there, or the half-dozen silent men who begin to spread throughout her workshop. She turns to face him and immediately tilts her head. “Your nose is bigger than I though.” she says, crossing the room.

She reaches out to touch his face, but he catches her hand. She blinks. “Who are you?” she asks again, tugging her hand back.

He obliges. “Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation,” he replies, “And you’re the Oracle.”

“Zuko,” she breathes, “Your name is Zuko.”

His name sounds foreign on her lips, exotic even. He can’t help the image the pops into his head—this woman gasping his name as he moves within her, looking at him with those stunning eyes. _Spirits_ , he thinks, _she’s beautiful._

“Your mother was right,” she says, almost to herself, “Azulon would not have suited you at all.”

Lust forgotten, he recoils, “How did you know—

Zuko stops, composes himself. He was warned that she would be like this. Difficult, seductive, confusing even. “Someone told you then?” he suggests, casually.

“No.” she says, distracted.

The Oracle turns back to her sculpture and begins to refine his features. “I saw the day you were born,” she says, “Your mother wanted another name—something she loved dearly, but I never heard her speak it.”

He answers the unspoken question. “It was Kuzon,” Zuko says stiffly, “But my grandfather named me.”

The Oracle smiles, opens her mouth to speak, then abruptly her face goes blank, as if she had been a marionette in action and now her strings have been cut. “ _The sages believed you wouldn’t survive_ ,” she announces in an altogether unworldly voice, “ _But the granddaughter of Avatar Roku begged the son of Sozin and he held you through the night and breathed the fire right back into your heart—_

Zuko shakes the girl out of her trance. “I don’t have time for old stories,” he snaps, “Will my men and I escape this palace tonight?”

The Oracle blinks, eyes still vacant. “ _The wheels of destiny turn and turn and turn_ ,” she hisses, “ _When the Oracle is stolen by the banished prince—_

He shakes her again. “Will we escape safely?” he demands again.

She ignores him and clutching his shoulders, she shouts, “ _When the Oracle is stolen by the banished prince—the boy in the iceberg will appear! The day of the comet grows near! There is much to prepare—_

Later on, he’ll tell himself that the desperation of the moment made him do it. It’s not a lie, but Zuko doesn’t kiss her because he needs to prevent an entire fortress of water tribe warriors of discovering him and his men. He kisses the Oracle because somehow, he’s lived this moment before. Maybe in a daydream or nightmare or fever dream, he saw this woman and he saw himself and when he takes her shoulders and touches his lips to hers, it feels right.

The Oracle stills.

Her lips are soft and warm, he inhales and she smells, somehow, like jasmine. Zuko watches as she blinks slowly, coming up from her lethargy like a seal coming up for air. He steps back but maintains his grip on her shoulders, steadying her. The Oracle stares at him.

“Zuko?” she whispers, as if they’ve known each other their whole lives, as if they have not just met, as if he has not seen her in dreams for the past five years.

Then he catches himself and remembers why he’s here. This isn’t some celestial hook-up, not some sort of star-crossed romance. He’s here for a reason.

“Will my men and I escape safely tonight?” he asks again, but his tone is careful and his grip on her shoulders is protective—what he’s protecting her from, he’s not sure of yet.

She doesn’t fall back into a trance. Instead the Oracle nods. “Yes,” she says, “But you’re supposed to take me with you.”

It’s easier to be the blunt, brutal prince. It’s easier to forget this moment that has transpired between them. “That’s why we’re here,” he tells her coldly, “You’re going to be a gift for my father.”


	2. Letters – Beauty –Tea Leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For decades, the Fire Nation has been inching closer and closer to total victory. But the rebellion, spear-headed by the White Lotus has a secret weapon: the Oracle in the North. Prince Zuko, having failed to find the Avatar, is given a final chance to regain his honor: capture the Oracle and bring her to the Fire Nation. Zutara. M.

_Acrid smoke, dark and black—she gags and coughs. Waving a hand, Katara emerges from the smoke onto what must be a battlefield. Death and destruction stretch as far as the eye can see. She has lived in the relative safety of the North for as long as she can remember; the destruction of the Southern Water Tribe is only a vague memory now. But this battle is not the first she has visited in a vision, it is not the first to be burned into her memory._

_At any rate, there is a point to this vision. She begins to walk._

_There is, for the most part, little activity. The dead are dead and the dying, well, they’re quiet about dying at least._

_The battle must be over._

_She focuses on the uniforms. Fire Nation, of course, and Earth Kingdom. They’re not current uniforms, for sure. Or future uniforms. She examines a dead man—he’s been evenly decapitated, but his armor is intact. Over time, she’s studied the historical evolution of uniforms; it sometimes helps her place the approximate timeline of her visions. This particular uniform is unfamiliar, but the armor carries a distinct sunrise emblem on one shoulder. Azulon’s crest, to represent the stretching empire he protected and maintained after Sozin. She checks the man’s opposite shoulder—a rampant dragon._

_This is how she knows that this is a vision of the past—of a battle that occurred sometime during Fire Lord Azulon’s reign, when his eldest son, the Dragon of the West, was his supreme general overseeing the war in the Earth Kingdom. Judging from the opposing forces, she’s seeing the battle for Ba Sing Se. It happened long after her family had made it to the North, when she was about nine or ten. So nearly a decade past, then._

_Katara is surprised to see the general himself. He is younger than the scrolls that Sokka has shown her, but of course, she knows what’s about to happen._

_From behind, she watches as General Iroh discovers his son’s body._

_The man cries out_ — Katara opens her eyes.

Instead of the General, she wakes to the face of her kidnapper. The man in red -- the Prince, she remembers. He’s holding her in his arms and they’re on a boat in the middle of the ocean and she is suddenly confused and afraid and— “Calm down,” Zuko says, “You were dreaming.”

 

Then she remembers who and where she is. The sky is still dark, but dawn is close. The air is crisp and cold, but she is deep in Zuko’s jacket—it feels like she’s sitting next to a warm fire. This is the beginning of the prophecy, she realizes again, when the Oracle is taken by the Banished Prince and the Boy in Iceberg finally appears. For a second, she can’t seem to draw in a breath—but then Zuko takes her hand. “You’re safe,” he says with quiet certainty, “No one will hurt you.”

His voice eases something in her chest. Katara pulls in a deep, shuddering breath. She spends a long time focusing on breathing, fighting the lingering panic and chest pain. 

“I had a vision dream,” she explains, finally, “Sometimes, it takes me a while to…wake up.”

“I see.” Zuko says.

They lapse into uncomfortable silence—mostly because he’s holding her like a lover, staring down at her as if he’s going to kiss her and she suddenly remembers a dozen dreams in which he was doing—they were doing—far less innocent things. But she can’t make herself move away and he’s certainly not offering to put her on the bench beside him.

“Will you tell me what happened in your vision?” he asks. 

She ponders this for a moment. Some of her visions are meant to be shared--some are meant for her alone. When nothing happens, when no certain feeling comes to her, she shrugs. 

“I saw a battle that occurred many years ago.” Katara says eventually. 

The prince doesn’t respond, because one of his men leans over. 

“Sir,” he says, very quietly, “We’re not going to make it before the sun breaks the horizon. We’re still too close to the sentry towers to start the engines.”

In the distance, a small boat has appeared. Katara cranes her neck and behind them, the North Pole has shrunk to the size of a thumbnail. They must have dropped their anchor very far away in order to avoid detection. 

Zuko’s lips flatten. “If we’re spotted, we’re as good as dead. They’ll be upon us before we reach the ship.”

Then he sets her aside. For a moment, the warmth is gone and she is wearing little more than her nightgown in the middle of an arctic ocean. Then the prince wraps his coat around her.

“Give me an oar,” he tells his man, “Everyone must row if we’re to survive until dawn.”

“I’m a waterbender,” she says, “I can get us there.”

Every soldier on the little boat turns to stare at her. Even Zuko seems taken aback.

“We’re kidnapping you,” He says, carefully expressionless, “Why would you help us succeed?”

She sighs, then pulls his coat off. She sets it on the bench beside her. “This is _meant_ to happen,” she explains, “The spirits show me visions because events are meant to progress this way. For whatever reason, it is imperative that I leave the Northern Water Tribe tonight. The reason will become clear eventually, but for now, I will fulfill my part.”

Before anyone has a chance to react, she lifts her arms and sends the boat racing forward.

~

Iroh knew what to expect, but somehow, he’s still surprised when his nephew returns just before dawn, a Water Tribe girl in tow. “Are you sure she is the Oracle?” he asks.

“Yes,” Zuko nods stiffly, “Tell the captain to sail for the Fire Nation immediately.”

Iroh relays his orders and follows them into the bowels of the ship. That she came of her own free is no surprise—the spirits have always had a strange sense of humor. That Zuko succeeded, against all odds—is, well, not surprising either. His nephew is strong-willed young man, with the determination and ability to see his actions through. But it means that the spirits intended this mission to succeed, which is both a relief and fresh nightmare.

Iroh has known for some time that his nephew would play an important role in ending the war, but some small part of him hoped that perhaps he had been wrong. Even now, he wanted to bundle up his second son and spirit him away from this never-ending conflict.

Impossible now, of course. Zuko is far too tall.

“Uncle,” Zuko orders, “Take the girl to her chambers. I’ll see to it that food is sent—make sure she eats.”

Then he strides away, confident and tall and completely self-assured. Sometimes, Iroh almost envies the young. Then he turns to the girl, who is watching Zuko leave with luminous blue eyes. 

“Your highness?” he says.

She turns. “I am no Princess, General Iroh.” she says, despite the fact that they’ve never met, “Master Katara will do.”

“My apologies,” he says, “We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting, Master Katara.”

He bows deeply and she blushes. She bows in return. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, General Iroh. Your nephew was very courteous to me.”

“Thank you,” he says, wryly, “He can be a very headstrong young man.”

“Yes,” she agrees, “But he saw to it that we arrived safely. You both have my thanks.”

He nods, “Please allow me to see you to your room, Master Katara.”

With the formalities seen to, he turns and leads her down the walkway. She follows quietly. The Oracle looks like a girl, but she walks like a warrior. She is all at once, many contradictions. And, he realizes, dressed in little more than a nightgown and flimsy robe. At least his nephew had seen fit to give her his heavy coat. They were prepared with clothes, of course, but she needed to be given a good pair of boots before her toes froze off. 

Iroh sighs. 

Only the young forget such essential things, like boots and rational thought.

He ushers her into the little bedroom that is to be the Oracle’s prison. “You will stay here, Master Katara. Please let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” She says and steps inside.

“Would you be interested a game of Pai Sho?” he asks, “I have recently acquired the perfect lotus tile.”

She pauses, then turns slowly. “I’ve never played before,” she replies, “But perhaps it is time to learn. My grandfather, Master Pakku, favors the lotus.”

They step inside the windowless room and Iroh closes the door behind him. “This room is safe,” he says, “I am the Grandmaster. How can the White Lotus help you, Master Katara?”

He motions for her to sit before a low table in the middle of the room. She arranges her gown primly, like a queen dressed in rags. “Word must be sent to my grandfather,” she says, “I am not to be pursued by my brother or anyone else. Our paths must diverge.”

Iroh busies himself with preparing tea. Chamomile, he decides, to aid digestion and promote sleep. “I will send the appropriate letters, of course,” he replies, “Are you sure this course is wise, Master Katara? My nephew is a good man, but his father is not. He will not be kind to you.”

For a moment, her serene, impenetrable strength flags and she appears exactly as is she—a girl plagued by visions and frightened by the future before her. Then she straightens. “Yes,” she replies firmly, “This is where I’m meant to be. I must see this through.”

“Of course,” He says, acceptance bitter on his tongue, “I will help you however I can.”

She inclines her head. “Thank you, General Iroh.”

He set a cup of tea before her. “A meal will arrive soon,” he tells her, “But anytime is an appropriate time for tea.”

The girl smiles wryly and agrees.

~

It is not that the contents of the letter are difficult. _Father,_ it reads, _I have captured the Oracle. She is beautiful_ — he crosses the last part out. It’s that there are too many thoughts and emotions fighting for his attention—he can’t concentrate. He fights frustration and drops his quill—ink splatters over the parchment.

Zuko curses, but steps away from the desk. He can’t afford to break another writing implement—Uncle Iroh complains every time need to be restocked and frankly, he can’t handle going through another kind lecture about controlling the black cloud that is his temper. But then he is frozen by the realization that they will never need to restock quills again—he is returning home. 

_Home._

It’s all most too much to comprehend.

He hasn’t been home in eight years—in the time he’s been gone, his sister has become a woman and he’s…not the boy he once was. Everything will be different. Without really meaning to, his thoughts return back to the Oracle.

When he touched her…it was almost as if he’d known her all his life. There was a connection. A familiarity. It unsettled him deeply. It’s been three days since they’ve captured her, three days since they escaped from the North without pursuit—three days and he still can’t forget the way her hand fit in his, the way her lips parted beneath his. He’s avoided her—easy enough with his Uncle seeing to her needs—but he can _feel_ her presence on his ship.

He picks the quill up and tries again.

_Father,_

_I have captured the Oracle and at present, sail for the homeland._

_Your faithful son,_

_Zuko._

It is pitifully short. He sighs but rolls the letter up and turns to the hawk waiting patiently in the cage beside his writing desk. “Koei,” he says, “Are you ready to fly back home?”

The bird chirps and Zuko smiles. He’d raised the messenger hawk as a boy and when he’d been banished, it had come with him. Koei was getting on in her years, but she was more than able to make the journey back home. He can’t wait to meet her there. 

Zuko moves to the window and opens it. His room is in the command tower—narrow, but the windows up here are wider and actually open—unlike the portholes below deck. He sends Koei off and just as he closes the window, there are urgent footsteps in the hall.

He hears the screaming and opens the door before the soldier has a chance to knock. “The Oracle--” the man gasps, breathlessly, “She’s--

Zuko races into the hallway.

~

Katara wakes with wet cheeks and puffy eyes and not for the first time, with a throat that aches from screaming.

She curses hoarsely and climbs—falls, really—out of her bed. The second her feet touch the cold iron floor, she remembers that she isn’t home. Sokka isn’t a few doors down, forever ready with parchment and ink to record the vision.

But the spirits don’t care—urgency burns in her limps, panic constricts her chest—she sucks in desperate breaths and tries to focus beyond the overwhelming need to crawl into Sokka’s arms and _scream_. Instinctively, she knows that this is part of her “gift,” the urge to—the need—to share the vision. Some visions—the big ones— _must_ be spoken. This is one of them.

But she can’t share it. Katara knows that any word she breathes will make it into the hands of the Fire Lord and just because her place is on this boat doesn’t mean she has to help the Fire Nation beyond that.

The urge turns into pain clawing at her heart—she bites her lip until it bleeds to hold in all the sounds. She doesn’t quite hear the banging at the door until it opens and there are hands on her upper arms, tugging her up onto the bed.

Between the tears and pain, she faintly recognizes the prince. He’s holding her in his arms again—like a child or a lover or something she doesn’t, she can’t think about now. He’s here and the vision is on the tip of her tongue—as if he’s supposed to hear this.

_“No!”_ she cries, but some part of her knows this is true.

He’s saying something—he’s demanding to know what’s hurting her, she thinks—but then his Uncle is there. General Iroh kneels beside her. “She’s had a vision,” he says, “Something terrible must have happened.”

Something terrible was about to happen, she knew. The strangled noise that escapes her mouth is somewhere between a moan and a cry—she can feel the spirits pressing down on her, telling her to do her part and send their words into the world.

“Oracle,” the old man says, “Speak your truths and we shall listen.”

She fights it with everything she has, but it has been a long time since Katara’s strength has been enough to resist a vision--the spirits win and the words come tumbling out of her mouth and into the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is powered by likes, reblogs, and reviews!


End file.
